


Creatures Lie Here

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confrontations, Domestic Violence, Don't Post To Another Site, Emotional Imbalance, Emotional Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse (past/referenced), F/M, Family Secrets, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Losing Grip on Reality, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Miscarriage (past-mentioned), Nightmares, Open Ending, POV Female Character, Past violence mentioned, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, References to Canon violence, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Unresolved Anger/Hatred, discussion of past trauma, emotionally unstable characters, surrogate mother-daughter relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Be good to him, and he will be good to you.__________________________________________________________An alternate take on "The Boy" (2016), in which Greta Evans finds herself drawn into the world of Heelshire Manor, where nothing is as it seems and ghosts of past and present live within the walls.  The more Greta finds herself drawn in by the darkness, the less she remembers a world without it...and the less she desires to ever leave it.
Relationships: Greta Evans & Malcolm, Greta Evans/Brahms Heelshire
Comments: 15
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a very long time since I posted for this fandom, mostly because I've had this baby cooking for over a year - but I am very pleased with the end result. And what better time to share than October? :)
> 
> So, here we go: my first multi-chapter piece for "The Boy". Tags will be added as we go along, but I will give this warning right from the start: this story involves descriptions and plot points which may be emotionally and/or psychologically triggering for my readers. I am going to tag this story as explicitly as I can, so please heed all tags, especially as we get further in.
> 
> Beyond that, I hope you all enjoy this for what it is: a writing experiment inspired by a song and my love for the macabre beauty that I found in this movie.
> 
> Comments and kudos, as always, are love. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Inspiration for both the title and story idea comes from Meg & Dia's "Monster". Check out this video here to see the source of my inspiration: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uu7UeUThdxA

And this is how it begins: with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.

It’s late, half past ten, when Greta finally satisfies the growling of an empty belly and tastes the offering. The house is quiet. The house is always quiet. Even so, across the hall, if she listens carefully enough, she can hear Brahms breathing: soft, gentle, peaceful.

Except Brahms doesn’t breathe. Brahms just sits there, and stares. Brahms is a doll.

Greta swallows, slowly. The bread is soft, moist with the jelly. Her fingertips leave little indents. Like bruises.

_“Please come out.”_

She takes another bite. The jelly is nestled between two layers of peanut butter; if you make the sandwich this way, the jelly doesn’t seep all the way through. The bread doesn’t get soggy that way. It’s the best way to make a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Just the way she likes it.

_“I promise to be good.”_

The house is quiet. The house is always quiet. When she steps across the floor, the boards don’t creak. The house holds its breath, just like she’s holding hers.

Brahms lies motionless in bed, but his eyes are open. His eyes are always open: always watching, always waiting. He can see that her feet are bare; that she’s breaking the rules. But he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he doesn’t mind if she breaks _that_ rule.

Greta walks across the hall, into Brahms’ room. She sets the tray on the nightstand (not on the bed; crumbs will get on the blankets) and tucks herself atop the edge. She waits for Brahms to sit up, to ask her what’s wrong and why she’s in his room so very late.

He won’t sit up. He can’t speak. Dolls don’t speak.

“Thank you, Brahms.” She says, softly. She smiles. “I really enjoyed my treat. You were so thoughtful to make it for me.”

Her eyes drift to the tray; she nods a little, to direct his attention in the same place. “I wanted to share it with you. Just make sure you don’t get jelly on your blanket, okay?” A pause. “I know, I know…you’re not supposed to have snacks in bed. But…well, it’ll just be one more rule, okay? And then, tomorrow, we start over. No more broken rules.” Another pause. “I mean…you will give me another chance, won’t you, Brahms? I know I’ve been terrible to you, but I promise to do better.”

_“I’ll do better, Cole.” Tears, lots of tears; hands covering bruises: fat and purple and blue, “I promise. I promise to be good.”_

_I promise to be good…_ “Eat it soon, Brahms.” She leans in, kisses his cold cheek. “You can’t sleep on a full stomach.” She kisses the other cheek. This one is also cold. He’s just a doll. There is no heat in a doll’s face. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He’s just a doll. Brahms is dead. This is just a doll bearing the name of a dead boy.

When she comes in the next morning, the sandwich is gone. There isn’t a crumb to be seen. And he didn’t get jelly on the blanket.

***

Around noon, Malcolm drops off the groceries. They make small talk. He asks if he upset her with anything he told her: about this house, about this family, about Brahms. Greta shakes her head and smiles. 

(Maybe she shouldn’t have smiled. He looks a little concerned that she’s smiling.)

The conversation begins and ends on the porch. She doesn’t invite him inside.

“Brahms is taking a nap.” She explains, because it’s a perfectly rational thing to say. “Neither of us slept very well last night.”

Malcolm looks at her for a long minute. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Of course I am.” Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she be?

She closes the door extra-softly. Tip-toes into the kitchen. Puts away the groceries as quietly as she can. Thinks about what to make for dinner. Maybe pasta. Or chicken. She wishes she knew more about grilling meat: they could have steak.

Something drops to the floor in the sitting room; rolls around on the floor for a few seconds before it stops. It’s a hairbrush. It’s her hairbrush, to be precise. Brahms is sitting on the floor. He must have been playing with it.

(Brahms is a doll. How did he get to the sitting room? Why does he have her hairbrush? Why—?)

“You should have called.” Greta smiles and sweeps him into an embrace. He’s so very light in her arms. “I would have come and gotten you.” She tucks the hairbrush in her back pocket. “But since you’re here, you can help me in the kitchen. I have a surprise for dinner.”

Brahms sits like a perfect gentleman and patiently waits for dinner preparations to be finished. She sets the plate in front of him first, then goes to her place at the opposite end. She pauses. Thinks for a minute. She stands up and drags the chair up the table to Brahms’ right side. Much better.

“It’s called macaroni and cheese.” She tells him (….he didn’t ask her a question), “I know: very American, but it’s a favorite where I come from. My mom used to make it for me all the time.”

She finishes eating before Brahms does. She always finishes first. She hopes he doesn’t think her uncivilized, as fast as she eats.

(…How and why would he notice?)

“I’m going to start a fire in the hearth, Brahms. It’s getting a little chilly. I don’t want you to catch cold.” (He’s a doll. Dolls can’t get sick.) “I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay? While I’m gone, take a few bites for me. If you don’t like it, I promise not to make it again…but try it, at least. Okay?”

Brahms says nothing, but Greta still pecks his little cheek as though he replied with assurances. “Thank you, sweet boy.”

She goes into the sitting room; stokes the fire to life. She brings the chair, Brahms’ favorite chair, a little closer—but not too close, because if it’s too close then he’ll get too hot—and then goes to the bookshelves. Five, ten, fifteen minutes: she finally finds a good book. She’s unfamiliar with most of these books, but this one seems good: a thick leather-bound volume with glossy gold lettering _Hans Christian Anderson’s Complete Fairytales._

There was a time she believed in fairytales, in white knights and pretty princesses to be swept off their dainty feet. Then she messed up. She walked into a dragon’s lair and didn’t have a prince to rescue her.

The plate is empty when she gets back. He even washed it and put it in the sink. Now, he sits in his chair, waiting for her.

“You’re so thoughtful, Brahms.” Greta smiles. “Let’s go read by the fire.”

She doesn’t think about the plate in the sink again until morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The Heelshires’ collection of fairytale books is a little surprising. Aren’t fairytales usually…well, to sound gender-biased, a girl thing? Most parents don’t let their boys—eight years old or not—near such things. At least, they don’t where Greta comes from. Maybe things are just different here in England.

The weather is different in England too. She wakes up to rain three days in a row. Not the gentle little pitter-patter of rain she remembers from Montana. Outside, it is an unapologetic downpour eliminating visibility beyond the windowpane. Greta knows this kind of rain, back where she’s from, would make people depressed, but she likes it. The rain is a veil: shimmering when she tilts her head just the right way. She wonders how it would feel on her skin.

“Do you like to play in the rain, Brahms?” she asks. They’re sitting together at the window. Brahms is wearing his favorite blue sweater, to keep out the chill. Greta didn’t pack appropriately for all this rain (because, really, who would believe it rains _this much_ in England?). Her shirts are too thin. Still, she tries not to shiver. She doesn’t want Brahms to worry about her.

(If he could notice…which he can’t. He’s a doll. He’s a doll. He’s…)

“Hmm?” she looks down at him. “Oh, well…yes, I did. Oh—don’t look at me like that!” she laughs softly. A loose strand of hair slips in her eyes; she brushes it away. “It may not be ladylike, but I guess I never felt childhood was for acting like a grownup. …But your parents didn’t quite feel the same, did they? Is that why you always wear suits? Don’t they ever get uncomfortable?”

Brahms doesn’t answer. (He…can’t answer…) Greta shrugs and leans forward on her elbows. “I get it. Once you’ve been wearing them long enough, it’s all the same. Kind of like bruises.”

She blinks, twice, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Brahms.” She pulls him close, providing comfort before he can get upset. “That’s not something you need to hear. I won’t talk about it again.”

She feels something on her shoulder. A tear…? But dolls can’t cry.

It’s nothing. Dolls can’t cry.

***

The rain continues through the night. Night after night. She can’t sleep.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._ Thunder? No, someone’s at the door.

Why is someone at the door in the middle of the night? Malcolm? Surely not: he can’t be making deliveries at this hour. The Heelshires? Did they return early, or late? Someone with car trouble, maybe?

Greta opens the door and gasps. “Cole.” Her knuckles are white. He’s drenched from the rain. It’s dark, but his eyes gleam bright. Lightning cracks through the sky, bright and white and vivid. It illuminates his smile. It’s a horrible smile. Dragon’s teeth, sharp and wet with blood, grinning at her.

“Did the pretty princess think she could escape?” Cole growls. She throws the door in his face and runs. She doesn’t get far. The ground betrays her: she trips and hits the ground hard. And then Cole is there; he’s on her. He’s beating her. Fists, claws, ripping and cutting and bleeding. She’s bleeding again. She’s bleeding and screaming— _Stop, stop, Cole, please stop, you’re hurting me, please stop…!!!_

She wakes herself up screaming. Screaming and crying.

Outside the window, a pale sun creeps over the horizon. It’s dawn.

***

The clock chimes nine in the evening. The fire has been put out in the sitting room. Brahms is in bed. Greta is in her bedroom, quietly brushing her hair. The cut strands are slowly growing back. She hasn’t noticed them in a while. She keeps brushing.

The phone rings.

“Hello?” it’s probably Malcolm, calling again to check up on her. He called a couple days ago, explaining the rain washed out parts of his usual route to the house. He won’t be by for at least three more days. She told him everything was fine. She went to college. She knows how to ration food to last. Fortunately, Brahms doesn’t eat too much.

“ _Greta?_ ”

She goes still. She knows this voice and it’s not Malcolm. “…Brahms?” _Ridiculous._ Brahms is a doll. Dolls don’t use the phone. Dolls don’t talk.

Except when they do.

“ _Who is Cole, Greta?_ ”

“…W…Where did you hear that name, Brahms?” she whispers. The hairbrush slides out of her grip. It lands softly on the carpet, then rolls onto the hardwood. It scrapes the wood.

“ _You were screaming, Greta. In your sleep._ ” Dolls can’t hear. How did Brahms hear her screaming? “ _You were crying. Why were you crying, Greta?_ ”

His voice is soft: a child’s curiosity. “It’s nothing to worry about, Brahms.” Greta promises, and it’s not. He is a boy. Boys should be happy and laughing and reading fairytale stories and playing in the rain in their expensive suits. “Hang up the phone now, and go back to sleep, okay?”

But a doll can’t hold a phone…let alone talk on the phone.

…Except when he does.

“ _Will you come sit with me, Greta? Just a little while?_ ”

It’s late. She wants to be alone. But she doesn’t. If she’s alone, then she will dream, and Cole will be there waiting with sharp teeth and claws.

“Okay.” She hangs up the phone. She leaves her room and goes across the hall. Brahms is waiting for her. He’s moved to one side of the bed, to give her plenty of room. He’s such a thoughtful boy.

She’ll just stay for a little while. Just until Brahms goes back to sleep. (…Dolls are always asleep. Or they’re always awake. They’re dolls…) Greta stretches out, atop the covers. Her arms fold under her head; her feet brush the mattress edge. She’s too tall for a child’s bed. She pulls her legs in a little closer.

She’ll just stay for a little while.

She wakes up to the sun, high in the sky. It’s late: ten o’clock. She should have been awake hours ago. Brahms needs his breakfast, and his piano lessons.

Brahms’ hand is in her hair. Both hands, actually. Greta can feel his little arms around her. He held her all night.

She can’t remember the last time she was held.


	3. Chapter 3

“I really am sorry about all this.” Malcolm says, hurrying into the kitchen with full arms. The three days turned into six. Greta has gotten creative with the menu options. “I hope you’re not on the brink of starvation. Mrs. Heelshire’ll box my ears together if she finds out.”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Greta smiles, laughs a little, and shrugs a shoulder. “Of course, she is going to _kill_ me if she finds out about the S’mores—”

“S’mores?”

“Mmhm. You take graham crackers and chocolate and marshmallows and roast the marshmallows and stick it all together! …Well, okay, so we didn’t exactly have graham crackers, and the marshmallows were pretty small—but if you stick enough of them together, it’s all the same!” she laughs again. “Anyway, we made such a mess! I will never hear the end of it if she finds out _that_ was Brahms’ dinner last night. But I don’t think she will. Brahms promised he wouldn’t say a word.”

Malcolm looks at her in that odd way, like he did before. Why? He knows Brahms is a good boy. Brahms will keep his promise.

“Right.” He says, after a long pause. She’s already delving into the groceries, humming quietly to herself. “Um…you know, I was thinking, on the way over…why don’t I take you out tonight? You’ve been cooped up in here. Some fresh air might do you some good. We can grab a little something while we’re out.”

“Okay.” She says brightly. “Formal or casual?” she pauses, then adds, “Not that it matters, of course: Brahms never goes anywhere outside of a suit, but if it’s super casual I could probably convince him to leave the suit jacket behind.”

“…Greta, I was sort of talking about us.” Malcolm sounds confused, and he’s looking at her like she just lapsed into a foreign language or something. “You know, you and I.”

Greta blinks. It’s her turn to be confused. “But what about Brahms?” she asks. “I can’t leave him alone in the house.”

“Greta, he’ll be fine.” He still has that look, like she’s talking crazy (why would he think she’s crazy?) “We’ll lock up the house and make sure no one can get in—”

“But what about his dinner?” None of this makes any sense. Doesn’t Malcolm know better? He’s worked with the family for years, known them personally since childhood. “And his bedtime story? You know Brahms has a routine, Malcolm. We can’t just start doing things willy-nilly because we feel like it.”

“Greta, don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?”

She flinches. He might as well have slapped her. “Overreacting?” she straightens, spine stiff. “I have a job to do, Malcolm. And right now, it’s time for lunch. So,” she takes the last bag from his arms and sets it neatly on the table, “you can see yourself out. Brahms and I will see you next week.”

“Greta—”

“Goodbye.” She pulls out the ingredients for soup and sandwiches. There’s still a chill in the air: she’s always loved soup and sandwiches when it’s cold. She focuses on that instead of the biting annoyance from Malcolm’s words. And his attitude. Looking at her like she’s lost her mind or something.

She’s not crazy. Everything is fine. She is doing just fine.

Right?

Brahms is waiting in the sitting room. He must have gotten tired of waiting in the piano room. The fairytale book is in his lap. “Not right now, Brahms.” She gently sets it aside and lifts him into her arms. “We’ll read after lunch, okay?” she kisses his cheek. “I promise.”

She keeps Brahms close while she works. It feels better, having him at her side, in her arms. It feels right.

It makes her forget.

***

“I was young. Young and stupid.” Greta sighs, sinking a little deeper into the pillows. “That’s the excuse of every girl who ends up in this situation, but it’s true. You go looking for a Prince Charming, like in those stories, and you end up with…something else. You don’t realize it at first. You make excuses for him, for yourself, for everyone around you.” A pause. “You know. He’ll change. I can change him. He doesn’t hurt me as long as I follow the rules.” She sighs again; rolls on her side. “It’s all just a tangled mess of lies, and before you know it, you can’t get out.”

“ _But you did get out._ ”

“Yes.” She adjusts the phone to her ear. It was digging into the left side. “I did.”

“ _How? Why?_ ”

“He did something to me.” her voice lowers, whispering. “Something…something very bad.”

“ _Did he hurt you, Greta?_ ”

“He always hurt me.”

“ _Then why did you stay?_ ”

Her fingers play lightly across the cord. “He said he loved me.”

“ _But he hurt you._ ”

“…Yes, Brahms.” Things are so very simple, in the mind of a child. Children see the world so differently from adults. She wonders when adults lose that: when they stop being simple and innocent and everything turns on its head. “He hurt me.”

She thinks it might not be so terrible: to have the mind of a child again.

***

Malcolm tries three more times to get her out of the house. He must know it’s starting to wear on her patience by now. She doesn’t greet him with the same smiles as before, and her cheery demeanor withers as soon as he’s inside the house. But she stays polite and courteous: she can’t have Brahms thinking she’s grown cold. He might think it’s because of him.

“I just think you deserve a night off.” Malcolm says, following her into the sitting room. Brahms feels a little chilled. She shouldn’t have left the window open last night. She quickly starts a fire and tucks his sweater in a little tighter. “Being alone with just Brahms all this time…it can get lonely. Go to your head, so to speak.”

“So to speak, Malcolm,” Greta replies, brushing a loose lock of hair from Brahms’ forehead, “it sounds as though you think I’ve lost my mind.”

“…I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” No one ever has to say what they’re thinking. Even when they think it isn’t, every thought is written across their face. Everyone. Her family. Her friends. Cole. She always saw what Cole was thinking. She just didn’t let it matter. It was always one more. One more chance, one more promise, one more mistake to be corrected and never repeated, one more, one more, one more…

Always one more.

***

“ _You had the dream again last night, Greta._ ”

“I’m sorry, Brahms.” She’s so tired. She never sleeps when she has the dream; she doesn’t sleep after she’s had it…she’s not sure she really sleeps while she has it. Maybe she never sleeps and life is just a cycle of ordinary occurrences and living nightmares, “I woke you up again, didn’t I?”

“ _You cry so much, Greta._ ”

“I’m sorry.” Tears slip down her cheeks. Is she crying again? No. Those are from last night.

“ _Why didn’t you come see me, Greta?_ ”

She smiles: a thin, watery, broken curve. “You don’t have to take care of me, Brahms.” That’s her job. She here to take care of him.

“ _I want to take care of you, Greta. I like you._ ”

Her fingers tighten, just a bit. _I like you…_ she feels as though a heavy weight just struck upside her head. What is he doing? What is SHE doing? Brahms can’t…Brahms is just a…he can’t…What does it even mean, that he likes her?

Well…it’s obvious, right? He likes her. That’s fine. She likes him too. She wouldn’t stay here if she didn’t like Brahms. Why is she worried about this? She’s acting like something is horribly wrong, that he likes her. Nonsense. She’s just tired.

“ _Greta?_ ”

“I’m sorry, Brahms.” Her eyelids are so heavy. “I’m just…I’m so tired.”

“ _Then sleep, Greta._ ”

“I can’t.” Lunch. Dinner. Piano and reading. “The schedule…”

“ _We can skip for today, Greta. It’ll be our little secret._ ”

Their little secret.


	4. Chapter 4

The mirror doesn’t lie: she looks terrible. Her skin is pale, pinched, and her eyes are heavily shadowed. Her hair is getting longer, but it falls thin and limp around her face. The clothes help hide the worst of it, how thin she’s becoming, but right now, naked, there’s no hiding anything. Greta can see every inch of skin dragged much too tight over her bones.

It doesn’t make sense. She eats. She and Brahms share every meal together. Why does she look so awful?

Maybe she does need to change things up. Maybe a little impulsivity would be good for them both. Her and Brahms.

***

It starts with walks outside. Yes, violation of rule _Brahms is never to go outside._ She can’t bring herself to care. Brahms needs the fresh air. It does him good. It does her good.

They walk around the grounds, grass soft and wet under her shoes. She brings Brahms to check the traps; makes sure he can’t see the dead rats lest it upset him. She lets him sit by the pond and watch the little birds flutter down, dip in for a quick bath, and then fly away again. She shows Brahms the ripples she makes with her fingertips. She teaches him to do the same.

They spend a lot of time at the piano. She teaches him her favorite childhood songs. She sings along, then apologizes to Brahms because she can’t carry a tune to save her life. She keeps him with her in the kitchen while meals are prepared. She lets him choose which outfit will be worn today and the next day. It does him good to have more flexibility over his life. Even the little things count.

She doesn’t remember the last time she slept in her own bed. Brahms provides the comfort denied her in an empty room on an empty bed. When she sleeps with him, in his little bed, she doesn’t have the dream. She doesn’t wake up tired, but refreshed and ready for another day.

She always wakes up to his arms around her.

***

“Just a walk,” Malcolm implores with hands outstretched, as though it might persuade her further, “Half an hour, tops. We can do it while Brahms is napping.”

“I’ll pass.” Greta drums fingers on the counter. She decides to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; she needs comfort food, and Brahms seems to enjoy them. “We go for walks every day as it is.”

“We?”

“Brahms and I.” she lays a paper towel flat on the counter and makes a point of reaching across Malcolm to find a butter knife. She can feel him staring at her, once more in the way which suggests she is, somehow, not making sense.

“…Well, yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck in an awkward gesture, “But he can’t be much in the way of company.”

She starts spreading the peanut butter, “I enjoy his company.”

“But still…a doll…” he seems to be struggling with words now, “I mean…you know…he’s a doll.”

“He’s not a doll.” She carefully dabs the jelly and smears it across the layered surface.

“…Greta, he is. He’s a doll. You’ve always known this.” Malcolm clears his throat, twice, “I mean, you thought the Heelshires were a bit off their nut, remember?”

“I thought they were a little odd.” Greta answers calmly, “But the best of us are.”

The silence falls like a lead weight. She cuts each sandwich in half and arrange them on a plate. She adds some sliced fruit and bits of cheese, then pours two glasses of milk. “It’s lunch.” She answers, “You should probably leave.”

“…I’m staying.”

Greta goes still, “…It’s time for lunch.” She repeats; perhaps he didn’t hear her right the first time, “You need to leave.”

“No.” Malcolm says, “You’ve been cooped up in here too long, by yourself. I’m gonna stick around for a bit.”

“I’m asking you to leave, Malcolm.” Her fingers tighten around the plate. This is wrong…this is all wrong. “Please.”

He takes a step closer; the crease between his eyebrows suggests concern, but his words are demanding, “Is there something you’re not telling me? Did something happen?”

“Nothing is wrong, other than you not doing what I ask.” There is a mild bite to her tone now: the first sign of temper bubbling up to the surface. Her eyes dart over his shoulder to the kitchen clock. Five minutes past the hour. Brahms will come looking for her; she doesn’t want him to see her upset.

“Well, something is wrong.” He presses with another forward step; she takes two back, “This isn’t like you.”

The heat of agitation licks her nerves, “That comment implies you know me well enough to say what is or isn’t me,” her jaw is tight with each word, “and you don’t.”

“Greta—”

_Crash!_ The sound punctuates air, and the plate rattles as she unceremoniously drops it on the countertop. 

“Brahms?!” her footsteps are hurried, frantic, as she hurries into the sitting room. A vase lies in pieces: a stretch of destruction from the carpet to hardwood. Brahms is on the floor, precariously tipped to the left, and she barely pays mind to the jagged porcelain before dropping to her knees beside him. Better her skin find damage than his…but, praise be, there is no injury.

“It’s okay.” She murmurs; fingers run in soothing strokes through dark hair, “It’s okay, Brahms…it was an accident.” Her arms enfold him, tight, to her breast, “It’s okay.”

She must console him, lest Brahms believe she is angry. She isn’t angry, but she also sees this for what it really is: not an accident, but an outburst. A tantrum. Still, she is not quick to anger with Brahms. She cannot find him at fault.

She feels Malcolm’s eyes on her from behind. Something is different about the way he’s looking at her, now. She slowly turns around, Brahms cradled close in her arms, and meets his gaze. She needs to identity whatever is in his eyes. If he dares look at her like before, like she’s crazy, she will turn him out on his ear.

“…I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet, so much so that she nearly misses it, “Really, I am. I’m just worried about you.”

Greta blinks, and realizes Malcolm is holding the lunch plates. He sets them down on the coffee table, then smiles at her, “Let me get a bag. Last thing you two need is a hospital trip.”

The relief crashes over her, and she expels a low sigh. She puts Brahms on the chair, out of harm’s way, and waits for Malcolm to bring the bag. She doesn’t wait long.

“I know you were upset.” She says to Brahms; each piece is carefully deposited into the bag while Malcolm holds it open, “But I need you to not break things, okay? You could have hurt yourself.” Even as she speaks, her eyes run over his profile, seeking a harmful shard which might have been missed, “The next time you get angry like this, tell me. Words instead of actions. Promise?”

He doesn’t answer, but she lets it go for now. If he wants to pout, he can pout.

Malcolm takes the bag out himself so she doesn’t have to. “Hey,” he says, loitering on the back steps for a moment; she gives him a curious look, and he shrugs, “you ever think there’re some places that just...do things to you?”

It’s her turn to pause, just half a minute more, then shrugs herself, “Maybe the trick isn’t knowing which places do things to you…maybe it’s about the one that don’t. I mean, if a place doesn’t leave some sort of imprint on you, what good is it doing anyone?”

He cracks a boyish grin, “Late-blooming philosopher.” He jokes, a playful tease, and tips his head in farewell, “I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out.”

***

Two days later, her phone rings. She misses the first call, otherwise occupied in the shower. The second time, she answers.

“ _I’m sorry, Greta._ ” Brahms sounds appropriately chastised, “ _I promise I won’t do it again._ ”

“I know you won’t.” she answers; the towel slides loose to the floor. The wall is cold on her skin. She barely feels it. “And I know you were upset.”

“ _He was trying to take you away._ ”

“Malcolm is just worried about me.” Greta murmurs, looking to soothe the rasp of anger in his young voice, “It’s not his fault he doesn’t know any better.”

“ _He does._ ” The rasp is stronger now, “ _He knows the rules. He just doesn’t care._ ”

At that, she is forced to take pause. Her silence doesn’t stop Brahms from talking, “ _Mummy and Daddy told him the rules, Greta. But now that they’re gone, he ignores them. And he wants you to ignore them too._ ”

“Brahms,” her tone is stern now; there are only so many liberties she can allow him to take, and making such rash judgments is not among the permitted, “Malcolm has been nothing but faithful to your parents for years. He broke the rules a couple times. So did you and I. It is not unforgiveable. He knows better now, and doesn’t deserve for you to talk about him like that. Ever.”

It’s his turn to pause, much longer than herself. She can barely catch the sounds of breath, emitting soft against the mouthpiece. “Brahms…” she has scolded him, now the time for comfort and reassurance arrives in gentler tones, “Brahms, Malcolm is just worried about us. He’s our friend, that’s all.”

“ _…Don’t leave me, Greta._ ” His tone is fragile now; it fractures her heart, and there is no greater desire than for her to encase him once more in her arms, “ _I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave me. Stay._ ”

“I’ll never leave you, Brahms.” The response comes without hesitation; in this moment, she can think of no answer more natural than this, “I promise.”

***

Sleeping in Brahms’ bed has begun to take its toll on her legs; she simply isn’t meant to sleep comfortably in a child’s bed. She starts bringing Brahms back to her own room. He doesn’t object. If anything, he seems happier.

Malcolm calls on Friday to say the grocery delivery will be late again. She doesn’t ask for details, or maybe he gave them and she couldn’t hear because Brahms decided to play with the record volume in her absence and now Mozart is bellowing in her right ear while Malcolm tries to shout into her left. 

Through the ruckus, she manages to communicate assurance that the delay isn’t a problem. They have plenty of leftovers.

“Tell the little guy to watch it,” Malcolm’s joking tone is audible even when he’s half-yelling, “or he’ll be tone deaf in two years.”

Greta rolls her eyes at the pun, tells him they will see him in two weeks, and goes into the music room to provide a lesson on impatience.

Her sister calls Saturday night while she’s getting ready for bed. Brahms is already tucked under the covers, so she takes the call inside the bathroom so as not to disturb his sleep.

What she hears through the other end of the line promptly ensures _her_ sleep is effectively and utterly disturbed.

“Why would you tell him where I went?” is nothing sacred in this world anymore? She left America, traveled across the ocean, for a specific reason. And now to hear her own flesh and blood has betrayed her…

Her sister pleads for understanding; says Cole was frightening the children and wouldn’t leave them alone. Is this supposed to appease her – _her_ , who knows Cole’s persistence more than anyone? Who knows the things he can do, say, which terrify and siphon out compliance because there is no other choice? Is she meant to extend empathy, words of reassurance? Is the rage boiling hot in her veins improper or somehow without validation?

Greta slams the phone down on its cradle. The hateful words in her throat drive teeth into tongue, and she tastes blood. A silent scream strains, violent, at vocal chords; she feels dizzy with anger she can’t release…

…and finally it erupts.

The assault on porcelain splits her hand, and her pain escapes in a harsh cry. Her knees hit the tiled floor; she cradles the injured hand to her heart, to her belly…every place Cole once claimed as victim. There are no tears; those were spilt over the unborn. There is only anger, rage: hot, consuming, and suffocating. Every seam of flesh feels like it might explode, and she will be obliterated to nothing but hateful memories.

Her vision swims, and then everything goes black.

She wakes up in her own bed beside Brahms. Her injured hand has been bandaged, and she doesn’t remember doing it.


	5. Chapter 5

Three nights later, the old dream (nightmare, really) changes.

There is no monster emerging from darkness with teeth and claws dripping blood. There is nothing odd about the scene at all, in fact. She lies in bed, at rest after the day’s activities and nightly routine. The white cotton of her nightwear preserves modesty but does little to chase out the cold. Her fingers extend, blindly, for the covers but cannot find the hem.

Soon, it is irrelevant: the covers gently ascend and drape across her shoulders. This would, perhaps, not seem strange (after all, very little seems strange in dreams) if not for the acute awareness that there is someone in the room with her.

Specifically, there is someone on, or in, the bed with her.

Her muscles tense, though any additional movement is oddly denied, as she prepares for Cole’s greedy hands to devour through all manner of unmentionable acts. The bruises will rise, the pain will blossom in shades of red and purple, and the stink of violation will be unbearable.

It is a surprise, then, when the hands move in soft fluttering motions: first, the crown of her head; then, the slope of neck and one shoulder. Finally, in a fluid downward glide, she feels fingers insert themselves between her own. Long and thin in design, but undeniably strong and broad in the palm. These are not Cole’s hands.

“ _Greta…_ ” her name ripples across one cheek in a slow exhale, and she wakes up.

Alone. Except for Brahms, still sound asleep.

***

The phone rings much too early in the morning, and Greta nearly kills herself trying to answer on the first ring before it can wake Brahms. If this is Malcolm, so help her…

“ _Miss Evans?_ ”

All the tension floods out of her system at the familiar tone, “Mrs. Heelshire,” she greets with no small relief.

“ _Forgive the dreadful hour; I was having trouble sleeping last night and feared it might be, shall we say, a mother’s intuition._ ” In the background, the sound of china scraping against itself is faint; Mrs. Heelshire must be enjoying an early-morning tea. “ _Is everything alright?_ ”

“Everything is fine.” Greta takes the phone back into the hallway; were this a face-to-face conversation, she would be mortified at her rumpled appearance. Over the phone, the matriarch won’t know any better. “Brahms has been only on his best behavior.”

A relieved sigh crackles softly against her ear, “ _I’m so very pleased to hear that. I hope everything else is going smoothly? No troubles with the rats?_ ”

“None.”

“ _And Malcolm has been consistent in his deliveries – and your payment?_ ”

“Without fail.” The minor exceptions to this rule don’t need discussion right now. The Heelshires are on holiday; this should be the most uncomplicated time of their lives.

“ _And how are you?_ ” the question is almost motherly; Greta can’t remember the last time she enjoyed a mother’s company without the ugliness of past sins hanging thick in the air. The question, though ultimately insignificant, blossoms warmth deep in her chest.

“Honestly,” she says, leaning back against the wall, “I think I could live here forever.”

Another pause. “ _You seem rather sincere in such a declaration, Miss Evans._ ”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

One more pause. “ _You haven’t mentioned this to Brahms, have you?_ ” there is an audible crease of concern in the elder’s voice, “ _I…shouldn’t wish to get his hopes up. He was so very endeared to you, even before we left._ ”

Greta frowns, “I haven’t,” she says slowly, “but…Mrs. Heelshire, even if I did tell him, it wouldn’t be a lie.”

“ _Living all alone in that house can be a heavy burden, Miss Evans._ ” The matriarch speaks softer now, “ _You have no neighbors. No one to talk to. No one with whom you can share your life._ ” Family. Friends. Someone to grow old with. Children to spoil at Christmas and birthdays. Greta hears the unsaid loud and clear. This is raw honesty, the likes of which the elder has never put on display before, no matter how brief the tenure of their relationship.

She wants to return the favor.

“Mrs. Heelshire,” she sinks to the floor; she folds limbs inward, a protective stance, and cradles the phone close to her ear while the other one wraps around both knees, “there is something I didn’t put in my application.” Silence on the other end suggestions an invitation to go on, “I left America because my boyfriend…” she pauses, the words sticking like lead in her throat, and forces herself to go on, “I was pregnant, Mrs. Heelshire. I was pregnant…and Cole… It wasn’t the first time he beat me, but this time…”

She can’t make herself say the words out loud. For better or worse, she doesn’t need to.

“ _The child died._ ” It’s painfully straightforward. Too straightforward. Like, there should be more to it than this. There should be some long-winded explanation; some complex expulsion of words to convey the tangled coil of barbed wire that is her emotional devastation.

“No.” she says, “It didn’t die. My baby was murdered.”

There. That’s what was missing: a simple word choice drawing the difference between death and murder. People die everyday and it’s perfectly natural. Murder is unnatural, by definition, and in its wake the world stops turning.

Mrs. Heelshire doesn’t say anything, so Greta fills the silence herself. “My life ended when my child died. I left my home. My family. Everything. And so, when I say I could live here forever, I do mean it. With all my heart.” She can feel, and hear, tears coating vocal chords as rapidly as eyelids, “This house is all that’s left for me, Mrs. Heelshire. This house…and Brahms.”

The silence doesn’t last as long this time. “ _In that case,_ ” the older woman says very slowly, “ _Mr. Heelshire and I are thinking of extending our holiday._ ”

“Good.” She’s happy for them. They’ve been locked up in this place alone with their son for twenty years. An extended holiday is exactly what they need, with a reliable support system for their son. “I’ll let Brahms know. I should be getting him up soon.”

“ _Yes, of course._ ” Mrs. Heelshire sounds relieved and what Greta can only describe as resolved; the fact she sounds this way after Greta just bared her heart and soul to reveal something truly traumatic fails to make a mental imprint, “ _Take care of yourself, Greta._ ”

“Enjoy your holiday. My best to Mr. Heelshire.” She hangs up the phone and considers the informality of her first name, and the other abnormal reactions throughout this conversation, only for as long as it takes her to walk down the hallway.

***

The day passes without another call. She’s beginning to worry. Did she say, do, something to upset Brahms? Maybe not; after all, silence is golden. Maybe everything is fine and he just has nothing new to say. That’s fine.

A day turns into two.

Two days turn into a week.

“Brahms,” she sits at the mattress edge, fingers gently stroking his pale cheek and smoothing his brows, “you know you can always talk to me, right?” she licks her lips nervously, “So, if there’s something wrong, or upsetting you…I want to know about it.”

She kisses his cheek, whispers goodnight, and waits for her phone to ring.

It never does. Eventually, she falls asleep.

***

“First time I’ve had a special request like this for the grocery run.” Malcolm says; he unloads bags on the table while she puts everything away. “Expanding the little guy’s diet, are you?”

“I thought Brahms might enjoy something new on the menu.” She smiles over her shoulder while tucking the bread loaf away. 

“Thought the Heelshires had his menu under pretty strict guidelines?”

Greta shrugs, “I talked to Mrs. Heelshire last week. Since things are going so well here, they decided to extend their holiday. In the meantime, I’ll play around with some new recipes.”

“Didn’t know you were such an expert in the kitchen?” he sounds good-naturedly amused.

“Are you kidding?” she flashes him a (moderately) playful smirk, “I didn’t just live off dry noodles and canned goods in America. I cooked almost every meal for myself.” _And for Cole_ , but the latter doesn’t deserve mention. It’s only an ugly reminder of how every meal was with fault. Here, Brahms’ devouring of every bite is the equivalent to rave reviews on her culinary skills.

“Well, enjoy.” He gives her a brief nod, “I’d better run. Meeting my mum in half an hour. Tell Brahms I said hello.”

The wave she gives in return is genuine and not wanting for a bit of good cheer. If Mrs. Heelshire was worried about her being alone, without companionship, then maintaining communication with Malcolm will relieve the elder’s concerns.

Of course, she’s never really been alone. She has Brahms.

She finishes putting everything away just in time for music lessons. Brahms has tidied himself up after a late morning nap and is waiting for her at the piano. She finds the sheet music and spreads it across the wooden bow. “From the beginning, Brahms.” She says gently, with a smile to match, “Let’s see how much you remember from yesterday.”

The day passes, as the rest do, without incident. She makes macaroni and cheese for dinner again, with a small salad for added nutrition, and lets Brahms have a glass of chocolate milk for dessert.

The phone still doesn’t ring.

***

“I’m starting to worry about you.” Greta says, with the weariness of her disappointment and concern on each word, “It’s been over two weeks now. I know you don’t talk much, Brahms, but…” a pause, then a sigh as she finishes the buttons on his cardigan, “Look, Brahms, just level with me: did I do something to upset you?”

He stares, as if in blissful unawareness. She heaves a frustrated sound, then carefully hoists him in her arms. “Fine. You don’t have to talk to me. But I can’t fix things if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Even with her frustration as it is, she can’t outright punish him just for holding his tongue. Each lesson is carried out on time, and she takes him outside a couple extra times throughout the day. Maybe he’s feeling withdrawn from too much time in the house.

If nothing else, the fresh air helps Greta. She’s come to enjoy the scent of fresh rain on a cool breeze.

The rain returns later in the week, and with it a bone-permeating chill in the air. She keeps the fire burning all night in every room and puts Brahms to bed with an extra blanket. The last packages of her clothes shipped from home arrived two days earlier, so she burrows into the warm comfort of an old extra-large sweater and settles in for the night.

The phone rings.

Startled by the noise, her reaction is delayed to the third ring. Then she leans over the footboard and grabs the device of its cradle, “Hello?”

“ _Greta?_ ”

It feels premature to declare relief entirely appropriate, even when the feeling is a bubbling rush from deep inside. “Brahms,” she says softly, “are you talking to me now?”

“ _Please don’t be angry, Greta._ ”

“I told you, I’m not angry. I just want to know why.”

She can hear breath leaving lungs in harsh bursts. Odd. Is he getting sick? “ _…You talked to Mummy. What did she say?_ ”

“She and your father are extending their holiday.” Greta answers; he’s avoiding the question, and she can’t understand why. “Other than that, she just wanted to know how things were going. She’s pleased to hear you’re doing well.”

“ _You told her something else, Greta._ ”

“…Yes, I did.”

“ _Why didn’t you tell me about that, Greta? Why didn’t you tell me about your baby?_ ”

“That’s nothing something you should hear, Brahms.” She leans back into the carved wood with a low sigh, “I thought you were asleep, or I never would have mentioned it.” In hindsight, that might not be completely true, but she’ll say it in the moment regardless.

“ _I want to know all about you, Greta._ ”

She’s quiet for a time, then sighs again, “Well, now you know everything. And it’s time for bed. Good night, Brahms.”

If she ends up crying herself to sleep, no one is there to notice.


	6. Chapter 6

“Delivery for you, miss.” The postman holds out a rather expansive envelope, then tips his hat and strolls along his merry way. Greta closes the door with her foot, locks it, and goes into the sitting room for further examination. Across the thick manila surface, the black imprint of Mrs. Heelshire’s elegant script stretches in four symmetrical lines.

She carefully slides a finger under the adhesive sealing and, with an equally careful gesture, upends the contents onto the coffee table. Out comes multiple documents: signed, stamped, and sealed. Greta isn’t a law student, but one doesn’t have to be when the first document’s title reads _Estate and Will_. The first two paragraphs include Greta’s name in junction with mentions of estate, property, and accessible funds. Half the remaining documents include transfer of bank account contents to a brand-new account established in the name of Greta Evans.

The entire Heelshire estate has just been deposited into her hands.

***

“So, do I start calling you ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Miss Evans’?” Malcolm quips while handing over the bags, “I’d hate to be informal with the new lady of the house.”

“Very funny.” Greta rolls her eyes.

“Better be careful if you ever go into town.” He starts pulling items out, as is their established unpacking routine, and setting each one on the counter or table. “You’ll have the local lads swarming and fisting each other bloody to have a go at the American heiress.”

“Mm hm.”

“I mean, it’s not the most conventional way to retire, but they’ve always done it their own way.” Under her silent direction, he pops the eggs and milk inside the refrigerator. “My bet says they’ll end up on a beach somewhere, making up for lost time.”

“Living vicariously, are we, Malcolm?”

“Well, isn’t that a four-dollar word?” he gives her an amused grin, “Lovely late-blooming philosopher with a dictionary on the tongue. You’ve been holding out on me, Miss Evans.”

“A woman is entitled to her secrets.” She smirks, then bids him goodbye under pretense of needing to clean. Malcolm offers to ask around town for a reputable cleaning lady. She accepts the offer with some sincerity; it bruises the ego to think she can’t manage herself, but this IS a huge estate. Maybe she could budget in a cleaning service.

Malcolm promises to let her know if he finds anything worth pursuing, then waves farewell. As soon as he drives away, her mood grows somber and she returns to the sitting room. The letter is exactly where she left it.

_Miss Evans,_

_It is with deepest regrets we must convey this information through such impersonal means; I know it must seem distasteful, particularly when we spent so little time together to begin with and yet requested so much of you. I hope you shall find it within yourself to forgive the transgression, along with every other confession you must now bear._

_What we once called ours is now yours, in every legal and practical sense of the word. You will find affirming documents enclosed with this letter, and Malcolm shall be informed via separate correspondence. He will be instructed to continue as he has, first with us and now with you. You will function in our roles, hence forth, and Mr. Heelshire and I leave it onto your discretion as to any amendments made to our original plan._

_The house and our lives now belong to you, Miss Evans, and with it every sin and secret we have carried for twenty years. It is, as I warned you in our prior conversation, a heavy burden. A life of loneliness and isolation; you may choose to maintain communication with friends, with family, but in time they will cease to recognize you. You will not be the same as you once were. The house, the life you have chosen, will change you as it changed us._

_It may not entirely be for ill. Brahms has taken to you in a way he failed to with the many, many others. He may share his life, his world, his hopes and desires with you where others were not granted the same. We leave you in each other’s care, clinging to the assurance that you will love one another now and always._

_Be good to him, and he will be good to you._

_Fondest farewells,_

_Mummy and Daddy_

Last to fall from the envelope are two wedding rings.


	7. Chapter 7

The rain finally stops (or at least pauses) and she’s able to check the traps. Considering she hasn’t been out here in three days, it’s a relief to see there aren’t too many rats to deal with.

She sets out ingredients to make hot soup and sandwiches for lunch, then pauses mid-preparation at a noise from the back rooms. “Malcolm?” he’s early for his delivery, but given the recent weather maybe it’s just an impulsive decision and he didn’t have time to call.

With Brahms in her arms, she maneuvers through the hallway with an easy stride that abruptly halts when she realizes the noise is coming from the pool hall. There’s no reason for Malcolm to be in the pool hall. He doesn’t even play.

Greta quickly turns and carries Brahms upstairs. Puts him securely under the covers. “Do not come out,” she whispers, “until I tell you to. Do you understand me?”

The look in his eyes is answer enough. She closes the door, locks it from the outside, and takes careful breaths to steel nerves as she descends once more. Every step makes her think of the condemned from some medieval history trial: each forward step is closer to their execution.

She turns the corner, steps into the pool hall, and every nightmare of the past year comes into blinding reality.

“Cole.”

His hair has gotten longer, and he put on a little weight. “Who’s Malcolm?” he asks, propped against the pool table and the game he helped himself to earlier. She inwardly curses herself for not being more attentive. A stranger in the house with Brahms… _how_ could she be so careless? So stupid?

“Not that it’s your business,” she answers, “but he’s the delivery man. Brings groceries and supplies. Now it’s my turn: what the hell are you doing here?”

His thick eyebrows bob, “That the kind of language you’re using around the little guy?”

“He’s taking a nap.” She retorts, “He can’t hear me, and frankly if he knew who you were, he probably wouldn’t object.”

Cole lays the pool stick down with an air of finality that sends a chill up her spine. He starts walking closer. “The act is cute, Greta, but you can drop it.” Even when she takes a few steps back, it doesn’t lengthen the distance between them, “Your sister mentioned the nuts you work for hired you to take care of a doll.”

Her spine goes rigid as the full betrayal is unceremoniously heaved before her. “Imagine my relief,” he continues, both talking and walking, “when I found out I didn’t have to take you away from a little kid.”

“Why would that be a relief?” she whispers, willing herself to become ice and finding the topic at-hand extremely helpful in that endeavor, “You’ve done it before, and it didn’t cost you any effort.”

Something twitches, then clenches, in his face. “Come on, baby,” he reaches for her shoulder, “you know I’m sorry. You gotta forgive me.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” She says with a deliberate jerk, “And don’t touch me.”

He backs off, but in touch only. The look in his face tells her this is far from over. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed. But it’s gonna be fine. Tomorrow, we’re leaving and we’ll start over.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He has the nerve to look at her with disappointment. “Do I really have to get rough, baby? It’s not like I want to drag you out of the house over my shoulder.”

“I’m _not_ ,” she bites out the word, “leaving.”

“Yes, you are.” Cole steps closer, and now she sees the mask cracking to glimpse the monster beneath: a monster with bloodied claws and hollow eyes and no remorse. “Tomorrow, you and me and the open road. We’re gonna do all the things we talked about doing, Greta. You’ll see.”

Just to provide unwanted emphasis on the ominous tone of this evening, the storm hits that night. Greta stands at the sink, rinsing off dinner plates with nausea rising in her gut. _Just like old times_ , Cole said earlier with a kiss to her cheek and a murmur about seeing her in the morning. Just like old times, when she washed dishes and let the soap-water rinse open wounds on hands and arms. Just like old times, to be on hand-and-knee cleaning up the aftermath of tantrums, wincing her way through the bruises. Just like old times, when his footsteps set her on edge like the condemned awaits the death blow.

Just like old times.

She drags herself up the stairs. Leans heavily against the bedroom door before unlocking it. Brahms is tucked into bed, pristine and at ease in his pajamas. She didn’t have time to get him ready for bed tonight. He must have done it himself, and left the bedside lamp on. Maybe he was waiting for her.

Of course he was waiting for her. She hasn’t given him a goodnight kiss.

Outside the lamp, the room is pitch black. Not even the moon is out tonight.

_The house and our lives now belong to you…and with it every sin and secret we have carried for twenty years._

Greta quietly turns the lock back in place. Once more, she leans heavily against the reassuring stability of structure of wood. The faint aroma of polish lingers. She inhales deeply.

_It is…a heavy burden…_

Her eyes slowly turn back to Brahms. Soft-spoken, ever-attentive, flawlessly-formed Brahms: at rest in his eternal silence. His eyes stare, unblinking, at her. In his gaze, she feels the weight of so many questions. One question, in particular, is the heaviest.

_…a life of loneliness…isolation…_

She slowly feels her way along the wall; fingers drag in plank-ridges and, ever briefly, clench down in a grip. The walls seem to hold their collective breath.

_…in time they will cease to recognize you. You will not be the same as you once were._

A fluttering touch glides over the lampshade; the golden light from within paints it a darker shade of burgundy. Greta thinks, unwillingly, of dried blood.

_The house, the life you have chosen…will change you._

Outside, thunder cracks violently. The blow seemingly comes directly from above: the omnipotent hand of God descending to crush the house – or maybe just her.

_We leave you in each other’s care, clinging to the assurance that you will love one another now and always._

Her hand rests at the wall behind the boy’s headboard. Once more, breath catches. She can’t be sure if it is her own or the house…or someone else entirely.

_Be good to him, and he will be good to you._

“I’m not going to leave you.” She whispers, forehead heavy against wood. “I’ll never leave you. I promise.” A slow breath, “…But I need your help.” Fingers curl into a loose fist; knuckles scrap against carved ridges: the ribcage of a living house, “Please, Brahms, help me.”

Silence: the breath is held once more. Then, an exhale: the whisper of a lock clicking out of place. The wall moves, a veil drawn back, and from the darkness a hand extends for hers. Long, pale, and exceptionally thin. It almost looks like the hand of Death. It’s attached to a face as childlike as the one sitting upright in bed behind her.

But nothing about this man belongs to a child.


	8. Chapter 8

_Three days later:_

“I still say you need to go to the hospital.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah.” Malcolm huffs; the countertop is littered with old bandages from her initial attempt to self-doctor, in addition to the plethora of used antiseptic wipes smeared with old blood, “You’re fit for a night at the Queen’s ball.”

He’s being sarcastic, but the dry exasperation is ultimately warranted. With a four-inch gash across her forehead, the knuckles of her left hand ripped open, and bruises across her entire right side, Greta knows she is only half a sight better than the sitting room wall, which looks like a crime scene victim itself.

“Alright,” Malcolm sits back, gives her a cursory inspection, and nods reluctant approval, “If you won’t let me take you to the hospital, that’s as good as it’ll get.” He turns to look across the hall, where the gaping hole in the wall is visible, “What about that mess?”

“I have some guys coming by next week to handle it.” She cleans off the counter, washes her hands (as best she can with the bandages), and leans back with a sigh, “I appreciate you coming out, especially with the storm.”

“Yeah. Swear, they’ll have to repave the whole bloody road – if the storm decides to let up.” He looks out the window, where the rain is still crashing down with thunder and lightning included, free of charge. His clothes are still dripping wet.

Greta pauses, then pushes herself upright on the surge of a new thought, “Malcolm, look: there’s no way you can drive in this mess. Spend the night.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not sending you out in the rain to wrap your car around a tree.” She playfully shoves his shoulder. The light banter is comfortable. A gentle breeze to soothe away the trauma. A reason for her to be childlike even for a moment’s breath. “You can help me finish cleaning the mess in there.”

“Sounds like hard labor.”

“I repay the efforts with a warm bed and homecooked meal.”

“Sold.” He grins and rolls up both sleeves, “I am your tool: direct me.”

They work long into the afternoon and stop only when Greta notices the sky darkening in a manner which announces night’s approach. In the kitchen, she prepares dinner while they make idle conversation, then she retrieves Brahms from his bedroom. The trauma of the last few days has taken a toll on his little body and Greta insisted he get plenty of rest in the peace of his own room. The color has returned to his face, and she’s optimistic that they will soon resume their afternoon walks.

Dinner stretches late, much later than originally intended, but it is Malcolm who notices the late hour and immediately starts cleaning up while shooing Greta upstairs, to put Brahms to bed before the hour grows any later. Gratitude swells warmly in her chest for this genuine display of concern for the boy’s wellbeing. However isolated she may be, at least she can count on her deliveryman to always have his priorities straight.

Malcolm is asleep in the guest room long before Greta has finished checking the fireplace downstairs, ensuring it will keep the house warm tonight. She lingers under the luxurious steam of a hot shower before wrapping herself in the basic comforts of soft cotton and sinking into the familiarity of her bed.

The hours tick softly from her nightstand. The house is still. Silent. She can hear her own breaths and, faintly, the telling low rumble of Malcolm’s snores from down the hallway.

The mattress dips behind her, a new weight added to her own, and long cool fingers curl over her shoulder. Greta exhales slowly, softly, and rolls to the left in an idle motion. With this single action, she feels the deceptive heat of the body stretched alongside her own. She reaches out, confident even in darkness, and flicks a switch. A warm golden glow flutters out from the bedside lamp. Dark eyes stare back at her, no longer hidden behind fake porcelain features. Her fingertips drag a tender path along the heavily scarred jawline and settle around his chin.

“Kiss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks. I apologize for the delay in getting these final chapters to you - I ended up in emergency surgery on Halloween. Not quite how I planned my Halloween holiday, but 2020 has been the year of bumps in the road. ;) See you all next time!


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